


It's Possible, Definitely

by TautologicalRhetoric



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Blood, Depression, Fluff, Hitman AU, Idk how to write fanfiction, M/M, Minor Character Death, Rich Kid! Marco, Slow Build, Underage Drinking, Violence, tw blood, tw q slur
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-28
Updated: 2015-04-13
Packaged: 2018-03-20 02:24:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3633204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TautologicalRhetoric/pseuds/TautologicalRhetoric
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marco Bodt knows there has to be something wrong with him. As an eighteen year old, he should be in college making friends and stressing over homework, maybe getting drunk or high or something here and there. He definitely should not be living with his parents, suffering from severe asthma, panic attacks, and depression. </p><p>But here he is.</p><p>Until one day, something strange happens that forces Marco out of his comfort zone... and into the arms of a new friend?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Man Who Came in Through the Bathroom Window

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, so this is my first time writing a fanfiction EVER.  
> Please be kind.  
> Questions and comments are always appreciated, and if you have any suggestions feel free to leave them below!
> 
> Also, trigger warnings-- mentions of criminal activity, depression, panic attacks, asthma, social phobia, and self-harm. Basically don't read this if you're sensitive to anything.

The deep warble of the repetitive A flat resounded deep within Marco’s ears. He played to drown out his pain, which ached and groaned and kicked and scratched inside him, very nearly consuming him whole. Deep scratches had been agonizingly traced along his forearm, the underside of it, where there were no freckles _(God, how Marco hated his freckles)_ , and now the liquid pain that leaked from his wrists dripped in count with his playing-- _drip. drip. drip._ His pain was defined by the length of the eighth notes, the echo of the piano strings as they were pounded by the felted hammers under the hood of the glossy black grand. Marco struck chords perfectly, over and over, writing his own pain out and saturating the air with it. He smiled. His wrists flowed red-- steadily, they _drip. drip. dripped_ on the smoothly carved ebony of the sharp keys. He was in pain, but the pain was not of this world. It devoured him, but was devoured by him as well, and Marco combusted in the red-hot fire of his pain. He screamed with his fingers; they stretched out across the keys and shoved them in. The music set off fireworks behind Marco’s eyes, and he breathed a little faster now, raising the tempo to match the fluttering of his heart and the irregular breaths that he took. He pounded A flat with a little more ferocity now, and his wrists dripped with pain a little faster now, and the walls were being splattered with it now, and Marco was smiling now, because surely, there was someone who _FELT_ HIS PAIN NOW--

* * *

 

Marco awoke face up on his bed, staring coldly at a white ceiling, and breathing heavily. There was a sharp pain in his thighs. He had a feeling for what it was already, but was still unprepared to deal with the inevitable. He sighed and occupied himself briefly with the central revolutions of the blades of the ceiling fan, which revolved with such velocity they made the entire fixture shake. The beaded cords that controlled the light and fan knocked against each other and the fixture alternatively, tinkling hollowly and marking the time that passed in half seconds.

It was ten whole minutes before Marco slowly unclenched the fists that dug into his legs, wincing as his stiff knuckles cracked and his fingernails stuck a little to the inside of the bloody abrasions left from last night. He brought his fingers closer to his face for further inspection. Dried blood. He sighed and swept the comforter off of him to inspect his thighs. They only had five short, stubbly gashes on each one, but they were pretty badly bruised. Purple and yellow and green splotches ran from the side of his knees to about halfway up his upper thigh, just below his checked blue boxer shorts.

Marco sighed, then turned on his bare stomach and reached out for the box of bandages that permanently resided on his bedside table for this very reason. The occurrence of his panic attacks were anything _but_ few and far inbetween. Much odder was the fact that it had been long enough since his last one for his cuts to heal into shiny white scars which contrasted his otherwise dark and freckly thighs.

Marco quickly popped open the worn cardboard flap on the box of bandages and slapped on several large band-aids, smoothing the woven material tightly over his now crusted and slightly oozing gashes. Then he reached out for two rolled up strips of stretchy compression cloth, and dressed his legs with it, securing each with a safety pin and velcro.

Sighing again, this time with fatigue, he flopped backwards and buried his head in his pillow. Squinting out of one eye at an angle so extreme it made his head ache, Marco assessed the amount of light flowing in through his sheer curtained windows and estimated the time. It was still foggy from last night’s rain, and the blue-ish light that illuminated his room had a telling pallor to it. Seven thirty? Quarter to eight? For a Saturday, this was quite an early time for him to have woken up of his own accord.

Marco’s hand reached up and under his cushioned head and flailed about, fingers grabbing for his phone. Soon, they came into contact with a cool plastic case and a cord that attached itself to the outlet behind his headboard. He pulled, and his charger disconnected. Marco brought the phone to his face and hit the wake button. 7:38a.m. Close enough.

His arm fell back to the mattress, its weight causing the bed frame to tremble. He closed his eyes and momentarily relished in the desire to lie in the comfort of a pile of blankets for the rest of his life. Ha. What a thought that was.

With sudden motivation, Marco’s eyes popped open and he pulled himself from his chrysalis of blankets, starting toward the bathroom. Down the hall, at the very end; Marco kept his eyes glued to the patterned carpet to avoid accidental eye contact with the empty smiling faces that stared with dead gazes from their framed 2-D planes. He quickened his pace and stepped inside the bathroom, slamming the door behind him a little too roughly.

A nervous sweat had broken across his forehead, giving his hairline a clammy gleam. He turned to face the mirror above the sink cabinet, and rested his hands on either side of the basin, slowly breathing in-out, one, two, three… Marco leveled his head, gazing up at the mirror, and studied the man who stared back at him. He too was spotted with countless freckles, and owned warm brown doe-eyes that were framed heavily with thick black lashes. He also looked scared. He was breathing noisily and his cheeks were flushed, but he was looking Marco dead in the eyes. Marco averted his gaze.

It was then that he noticed.

Out of the corner of his eye, just a glimpse, but enough to capture Marco’s attention and keep it long enough to focus…

Marco’s breath hitched.

A figure clad entirely in black, complete with a dark ski mask loomed behind him, thick arms raised over his head and latex gloved hands clutching a clear plastic bag that was steadily moving further down… toward Marco’s own head. _A robber?_ Marco thought frantically. His breathing ceased completely. No, why would a robber wait for him in the bathroom? What business would a robber have lugging around a giant black body bag? He didn’t have time to think about it much, because seconds later, he was out cold.

* * *

 


	2. The Orange House Next Door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marco hadn't tried to be such an antisocial loser. After many years of failed attempts at friendship, even companionship with his peers, he had come to terms with himself and accepted it as a part of who he was. He could tell that his parents had given up on him as well. They didn't bother with counselors anymore, they hadn't for about three and a half years.
> 
> Marco knew he was a lost cause.
> 
> However, Jean Kirschtein, the 17-year-old kid who moved into the big orange house next door, didn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song that Marco plays in the beginning is Chopin's Prelude in D Flat.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who reads, leaves kudos, comments, or bookmarks! You guys have no idea how much that means to me. 
> 
> The next chapter is coming. Please be patient and check back soon for updates!

Being unconscious was weird. 

Marco was at the bottom of a deep pool of dark emptiness. He couldn't think, he couldn't feel, he just floated freely in the black waters of his subconsciousness. He couldn't tell if his eyes were open or not, only that he couldn't move them. His eyelids felt like bricks. 

He felt like he had been _hit_ with a brick.

Make that an anvil. 

Marco found himself floating closer to the surface. As he grew closer, he noticed the pain that throbbed somewhere in the back of his head, gradually intensifying until he was inches away from reality, and was staring at the red backs of his eyelids. His head  _hurt._ What had even happened? 

The sound of breaking glass was enough to jar him from his stupor. Marco's eyes snapped open.

He was in the bathroom, sprawled out on the floor with one arm twisted awkwardly underneath him. How had he gotten here? He didn't even remember getting out of bed. There was a scuffle in the direction of the shower. Marco refocused. Man, even moving his eyes was painful.

The first thing that caught Marco's attention was the open bathroom window. It looked to have been frantically pushed up from the outside, because the screen was hanging limply from the fasteners at the bottom of the sill, and knocked steadily against the side of the house. It was cocked open at a strange angle, whoever had opened it had done so in either great haste or difficulty, possibly both. It was also probably broken, or at least jammed. The left side of the window was about five inches higher than the right side.

There was a man standing in the corner of the bathroom, surrounded by shards of broken glass. He wore gray sweatpants and slippers, and a yellow XL  _Shiganshina Seniors_ T-shirt that was loosely gathered at his waist. He had two-toned hair styled short and dark on the sides and light and long on top. The top part stuck out in abstract wisps. His ears, which were dotted with several black studs, were bright red, as was his face, and his breath came in sharp audible gasps. He was clutching one of his hands, tenderly cradling it against his body. It dripped a dark liquid. Blood was splattered across the broken glass on the floor, and pooled in a small puddle at this man's feet.

_Drip._

Marco felt sick.

He tried to sit up, but stopped about halfway, propped up on his elbows, because the sudden movement sent a rush of blood to his head and made it throb harder.  _What's going on?_ He tried again to push himself up, but stopped when he accidentally looked back at the shower. The stranger was quietly pulling bits of the glass shower door from his knuckles, but behind him...

Marco could feel his face whiten.

There was another man in the shower stall, clad all in black and slumped up against the side. Dark smears trailed down to the place where he lay, suggesting he had been pushed into the shower before sliding down to where he was now. There were several jagged pieces of glass lodged in his right arm, neck, and head. He wasn't moving. There wasn't even evidence that he was still breathing. 

 _Is he dead?_  thoughtMarco. The room swam.

Marco whimpered. He moved his hand up to towards the cabinet to try to hoist himself into a standing position. The stranger in the yellow shirt's head snapped in his direction. Marco stopped, his hand wavering on the knob on the cabinet door beside him. His heart was beating faster, and his lungs were so full of air they could have floated Marco to the moon. He wouldn't have had any objections either, because this guy's eyes were so  _intense_. They were a glistening ochre, and shone with fixation and something Marco couldn't describe. He wanted to melt away.

For what felt like eternity, each man stared at the other, their eyes locked by mutual startlement. Finally, the stranger broke it, his eyes widening with some sudden realization.

"Fucking shit," he swore under his breath, quickly shuffling over to where Marco sat, sprawled out, on the floor, and helping him up.

"Shit man, I'm really sorry," his voice sounded unstable, like he was about to cry. The guy's eyes watered. A tear slipped down his face and neck, then disappeared under his shirt. More followed, until he was wailing pitifully and wiping his messy face on his shirt, trying to regain composure but failing miserably. Marco said nothing. Minutes passed, and the stranger cried until dry sobs racked his body, and his eyes were bloodshot. He buried his head in his uninjured hand, rubbing his eyes over and over with his thumb and forefinger.

Marco found his voice.

"W-who are you?" he whispered, and his voice cracked. 

The guy's hand fell from his face, and he looked at Marco in surprise before answering, "J-jean. My name's Jean Kirschtein."

 _Kirschtein. Where have I heard that name before?_ Marco nodded in assent. Out of self-consciousness and habit, his right hand flew to his collarbone, and he began nervously rubbing his clavicle. It was strangely soothing. _That name..._  Then it clicked.

"K-kirschtein... from ne-next door, right?" Marco vaguely remembered his parents saying something about new neighbors, a couple, moving in next door about a week ago over dinner. Apparently, they had a son.

"Y-yeah," Jean seemed relieved. He took a deep breath, then delved into a more detailed explanation, "So, I-- uh, look." He gestured over to the dead lump in the shower corner, and winced. "That guy... I saw him come in your house. He was making a lot of noise and stuff. I wanted to call the police, but." Here, he swallowed a lump in his throat and inhaled, "But I saw the bag, and I didn't think I would have time. I came in through your window. I think I broke it," A nervous chuckle. "Sorry about that."

Marco slowly nodded, processing.

"Should we call the police?" Marco rasped, internally cursing his morning voice.

"Yeah, definitely." Jean replied. "Uh," He grinned sheepishly, "Do you want to, or should I...?"

"You." Marco responded far too quickly. _Smooth._ "I m-mean, you saw what happened and all, I was blacked out..."

Jean Kirschtien nodded. He pulled his phone out of the waistband of his sweatpants, and dialed 9-1-1. The dial tone echoed. There was a small beep and a scuffle as someone on the other end of the line picked up.

"Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?" A female receptionist asked, as if reading from a script.

Jean didn't miss a beat. "Hello, yes, I'm calling from Rose Avenue, we've got a case of breaking and entering. My neighbor's house. Mm-hmm. Yeah, the guy's still here. No, I think he's unconscious. Okay. Yeah." Jean held the receiver to his chest. "Hey, uh, what's your address?" He directed at Marco.

"One-oh-four."

"One-oh-four," Jean continued, lifting the phone back up to his ear. "Yeah, that would be great. Thank you." The call ended. Jean slipped his phone back into his waistband.

"The lady said that the police would be here in about three minutes."

"Okay."

"We should go downstairs. That's all right, isn't it? You look like you should sit down anyway."

"Yeah... okay..."

"Hey man, are you okay? I mean, like, can you walk and stuff?" Jean asked as Marco leaned on the sink counter for support.

"Y-yeah... I'll... I'll be fine." Marco wasn't fine, and Jean knew it. Jean grabbed Marco's arm and draped it over his shoulder.

"Come on, let's get you downstairs."


	3. A New Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The police arrive, and Marco pretends to be asleep while quietly creeping on Jean and the officer's conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all the comments, kudos, bookmarks, and views!

"Is here okay?"

"Yeah. Thanks."

Jean lowered Marco onto the couch, then took a step back.

"How do you feel?"

How _did_ he feel? Pretty shitty, that's for sure. He was ninety-five percent sure he had a concussion, and he still needed to take his meds. But that would have to wait until Jean left. He didn't need him worrying about Marco any more than he already was.

"I'm fine," Marco said, unconvincingly. "Really."

Jean narrowed his eyes. He didn't buy it. He opened his mouth to speak just as the doorbell rang.

Jean gave Marco a look that said, _I'll deal with you later,_ and walked out of the room to answer the front door.

Marco decided this would be a good time to feign sleep. It wouldn't be too much of a stretch; he was concussed, after all. Marco rested his head on the soft material of the couch's arm and closed his eyes.

Jean opened the door. It was the police. _Well that was fast._

"Hello, I'm officer Erwin Smith. We received your call down at the station. Breaking and entering, is that right?" He flashed Jean his badge, and Jean nodded. "Is the suspect still inside?"

"Yeah. He's in the bathroom upstairs."

"Then I'm going to have to ask you to leave until the area is clear. Is there anyone else in the house?"

"I-uh, yeah, there is."

"Can he or she be moved?"

"I don't think so, no."

"Then I'll let you stay in. Be careful. We'll do our job," Officer Smith stepped through the door jamb and motioned for his partner, a short blonde woman, to follow. Jean backed up into the living room as the officers cautiously ascended the stairs, holding loaded guns pointed at the floor.

Jean walked over to the couch where Marco was, and sat down next to him. Marco looked to be asleep His knee bobbed up and down restlessly.

"This is the police," Officer Smith bellowed upstairs. "Put your hands above your head!"

"Erwin, I don't think we have to worry about this guy resisting arrest," What Jean assumed was the woman's voice, cool and nonchalant, echoed in the bathroom. "Look."

"Oh my go-"

Jean sighed as quick footfalls pounded down the stairs. Officer Smith looked around the room, his eyes finally settling on Jean.

"Son, do you know anything about what happened up there?" Officer Smith panted; his elbow was bent and his thumb pointed in the direction of upstairs.

Jean nodded.

"Would you mind explaining it to me?" Officer Erwin walked calmly toward Jean, then lowered himself into an armchair beside the couch. "Well?"

Jean took a deep, reassuring breath and obliged. He told the officer about how he saw the man sneak in to his neighbor's house, how he saw the body bag and decided against calling the police. He told him how he had climbed up onto the balcony and pushed the bathroom window open by leaning over the side rail, how he had slid in through the window, and how he wrestled with the man in black before finally shoving him through the shower door. He told him how he panicked when the guy stopped moving. He wanted to tell him more, to somehow relay how truly sorry he was, and how scared he was, but instead, his words trailed off, ending with a gargle. He didn't know what else to say.

Erwin Smith nodded in understanding, then spoke: "Son, you're a hero. You should be damn proud of yourself. What you did today was very brave, I don't think I know another kid who would have done the same. Hell, if i were your age, I can't even tell you if I would have done what you did. But what I can tell you is this: that boy would not be sitting next to you if you hadn't judged the situation and acted accordingly. You have my respect."

Jean's eyes brimmed with tears. This wasn't exactly what he needed to hear right now, but it did make him feel a little better.

"Erwin," the woman called from upstairs, "You're not going to believe this."

"What is it, Annie?"

"The guy in the shower? It's Eren Jaeger."

Officer Smith stood up immediately. "No way,"

"What's the deal, officer?" Jean rose too, startled. Who was this guy? Was he important?

"Eren Jaeger," Erwin Smith replied, "is a professional hitman. He's wanted in thirty-seven states and three countries for serial murder. He's infamous for the assassinations of the Dutch Prime Minister to Mexico, and a few police officers in Paris. Although..." Erwin let out a sarcastic chuckle, "It would appear all of that has finally caught up to him."

_A hitman? What's he talking about? Why would a professional hitman come to Trost?_

"I'm calling an ambulance." Annie shouted.

Ten minutes later, an ambulance pulled in the driveway behind the Trost City Police car at 104 Rose Avenue, complete with wailing sirens and flashing lights. Two EMTs, a male and a female, wheeled a stretcher in through the open front door. Both wore pale green-gray scrubs; one's brown hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail, and the other, the shorter of the two, was bald.

"He's upstairs," Erwin said, prompted by the alertness in the brunette's eyes. She nodded, then she and the other EMT lifted the main platform off of its frame, and carried it up the stairs.

"It'll be okay," the Officer assured Jean.

But Jean wasn't too sure.

* * *

 

The EMTs had long left by the time the police were finished with their report. While the officer called Annie didn't speak unless she had to, this Erwin guy seemed to have lots of spare advice. As he left, he told Jean,"After what happened, try to keep your head down. We think this guy was working with an accomplice at one point, and if he was, they're sure to want revenge. Be careful. You'd do best to stay inside for the rest of today, at least." Then he shut the door and Jean was left in silence, sitting alone in someone else's house. Notable, of course, was that he might have just saved that someone's life, and that same someone was now curled up against the side of the couch, asleep.

"Are they gone yet?"

Jean jumped out of his skin.

"Y-yeah. _Jeez,_ man, don't do that! I thought you were asleep!"

"Sorry," Marco wasn't sorry. "If I heard right, they said you're not supposed to go home... so are you crashing here?"

"If it's not too much trouble, yeah. It's kinda stupid though, I'm just next door."

"No," Marco shook his head. "They're right. If Eren had an accomplice, then you should avoid going out in public, even if it's just next door. Don't underestimate that kind of person."

"Sheesh, man, you really weren't asleep, were you?"

"Nope."

A brief pause.

"So... do you like Mario Kart?"

"How is that even a question?"


	4. The Coffee Incident

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Marco is precious, clumsy, and self conscious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey you guys! Super sorry for my inactivity over the last few days, I've been pretty busy with schoolwork. However, that's been taken care of, and now there's a new chapter!  
> I had a lot of fun writing it, so I hope you'll have just as much fun (or more :) ) reading it!  
> Thanks again for all the kudos and comments, you know just how to make my day brighter!  
> Until next time!

"Woah dude, your house is sick!"

Marco had showed Jean into his family's home theater, which branched smoothly off of the sitting room, without so much as a second thought. But now, he was unsure whether he would end up regretting it.

"Your parents must be seriously stacked," Jean exclaimed in awe as he absorbed the sight before him. Marco blushed profusely, but Jean didn't notice; he was too busy pouring over the  _four_ game consoles that were stacked up under the 80 inch flatscreen that dominated the far wall. His excitement was that of a little kid's when he realized that Marco had a PS4, an Xbox, a Wii U, a Kinect,  _and_ a small tower of Nintendo DSs. There were several shelves along the north wall that were devoted entirely to video game discs. Jean blanched when he realized that the shelves were  _alphabetized_  based on their categories. 

Too much. It was too much.  _How rich is this guy?_ Jean wondered, as Marco shifted from one foot to another uncomfortably behind him, painfully aware that he was still in nothing but his boxers. 

Marco trotted over to the M section of the second shelf (it stretched along the entire wall) and pulled out  _Mario Kart_ for Nintendo Wii. 

"Put this in?" Marco suggested as he handed the case down to Jean, who was now sitting cross legged on the carpeted floor. "I'm gonna go get some snacks from the kitchen," Marco silently prayed that Jean wouldn't ask to follow him.

"Kay," Jean replied, fumbling with the disc.

Relief swept over Marco, and he turned on his heel, out of the room and into the kitchen, which was connected to the home theater by a short hallway. Once he was through the archway and his feet found cold ceramic tiled floor, he immediately sped out of the room and up the narrow staircase that led from the kitchen directly to his room. 

It was just how he had left it. Marco hadn't quite been able to wrap his head around this morning's events, but this, seeing his room in perfect condition, just made it harder. He remembered what he came up for, and pulled a pair of black sweats on over his boxers. They had been worn before, but they weren't dirty yet. Marco looked over the room again. He was forgetting something else... His bed was unmade, and there were band-aid wrappers littering his bedside table still. The box was still open, and it lay on its side. There was a bottle of pills sat next to it.  _Oh shit._  Marco still hadn't taken his meds.

He passed his dresser on the way to the other side of the room, and snatched a slate gray shirt from the top of a clean pile of folded laundry. He shook it out and pulled it over his head, then picked up the bottle of pills. He didn't bother reading the faded label, he knew what it said already.

 

>   **Prozac** ( _fluoxetine_ ), 20 mg
> 
> DIRECTIONS: TAKE ONE (1) CAPSULE BY MOUTH DAILY TO EASE SYMPTOMS OF CHRONIC ANXIETY AND DEPRESSION

Marco popped the cap on it, and shook one of the bi-colored pills into his cupped palm. He brought his hand to his mouth, then tilted his head back and swallowed the pill dry.  _Yuck,_ he thought with a shudder.  _Uh-oh,_ Marco thought, swallowing again. Was it stuck?

Marco held his breath as he went back down the stairs to the kitchen. He hurried over to the refrigerator and swung one of the silver french doors open, and grabbed the handle of a milk jug. He set it down on the countertop behind him, then opened a cabinet door for a glass in which to pour it. He filled the glass halfway with milk, lifted it to his lips, and chugged it without pausing for breath. Clank. Marco slammed the glass back on the table and gasped for air. His throat was clear. Much better. Marco shuffled over to the pantry door, turned the handle, and walked in, flicking on the light. He scanned the shelves on the right side... Bingo. Marco grabbed a blue package and a plastic jar of Skippy peanut butter, then closed the door. Drinks? Marco wondered if Jean liked coffee. He decided to brew a few cups regardless, reasoning that it was still like, ten o' clock. Marco's eyes flashed to the clock face on the stove. 10:00, it read. _On the dot._ He walked over to the coffee station on the island and picked up the pot so he could fill it in the sink. When he turned back around, Jean was standing under the arch to the hallway. Marco jumped, then fumbled the pot, nearly dropping it. 

Jean was holding his right hand in his left.  _Oh yeah, it was hurt earlier, wasn't it?_

"Hey dude, are you okay?" It wasn't Marco who spoke; it was Jean. "Sorry if I scared you."

"I-it's okay, I'm fine." Marco stuttered.  _I say that too much, don't I? Is it obvious? Oh well._

"Um," Jean started awkwardly, "You wouldn't happen to have any bandages, would you? I kinda... my hand..." Jean trailed off. "I mean, I have some at home, and I'd totally go to get them, if not for, y'know. The fuzz said to stay inside and stuff." Jean looked away, then his eyes darted back and made intentional contact with Marco's. They gleamed intensely.

"It's uh, it's Marco, right?"

Marco released hold on the pot this time. Water splashed everywhere, projecting droplets onto the cabinet doors and puddling on the floor. The pot clattered and rolled into the lip of the cabinet overhang, then stopped. A steady drip of water streamed from the top, just under the lid.

But wait a minute.  _How does he know my name? Did I tell him? No. So how...?_

"Yeah, it's Marco," Marco swallowed.

"Great," Jean replied, "I knew I was right about that. I'm totally getting five bucks out of  _Maman."_

When Marco didn't respond, Jean hurried into a more detailed explanation. "Sorry. Your parents came over a few days ago, to introduce themselves, I guess, and they mentioned you. I was ninety-nine percent sure that they said your name was Marco, but my mom swore that they said Mark. We had this whole bet and everything. And now she owes me five green ones."

Marco nodded, then smiled meekly, "You wanted band-aids?"

"Right. Yeah, I do. You have any?"

Of course Marco had band-aids. He had several boxes of them in his room alone, not to mention an odd number stationed around the house. There were probably even some there in the kitchen, under the sink or something. 

Marco didn't answer Jean, but instead turned around to face the sink, and... slipped on the puddle of water that he hadn't yet cleaned up. He landed with a thud and a splash on the cold tile floor, shallowly scraping his leg on the underside of the cabinet.

" _Ouch,_ " groaned Marco.

"Dude, you okay?" a concerned Jean leaned over the island counter top; his bushy eyebrows knit together, questioning. Marco whimpered. This was so  _not_ what his concussion needed right now.

"Stay there dude, I'll help you up." In a flash Jean was by Marco's side, offering him assistance from the arm of his uninjured hand. A vein that ran down his bicep pushed against his skin, raising a visible line from his shoulder to his wrist as he pulled Marco to his feet.  _Wow._  Marco thought, _His hands are surprisingly soft._

"The uh, the band-aids are under the sink," said Marco, pulling his hand back quickly and blushing. "If you... yeah, those."

Jean had already knelt down and opened the door, and was now holding a box of Hello Kitty themed bandages out for approval. One of his eyebrows was raised.

"It- It was all they had at the store!"

"Suuuuure," Jean drawled, teasing.

"I'm serious!" It was true, Marco's parents were known well down at the local CVS for wiping out entire stocks of bandages in a matter of weeks. Not that Marco had any personal beef with the cute children's character that stared back at him from the picture on the box. 

"It's okay dude, chill. Hello Kitty has her own brand of swag." Jean decisively ripped open several band-aid wrappers at once, then plastered them abstractly all over the back of his hand.

There was a fair amount of dried blood on it already, but Marco could see how when Jean spread his fingers out, the scabbing flesh cracked and separated, causing fresh blood to seep out. It had to have hurt way worse when it happened.

Jean, oblivious to Marco's scrutiny, had finished covering his hand and was now looking down at their feet. They were both standing in the puddle of not-yet-coffee water that had caused Marco to slip. When Marco raised his foot to take a step forward, Jean stopped him by holding out his hand. 

"Wait a sec," he said, as he  _peeled off his shirt_ and laid it on the floor. Then he grinned up at Marco, flashing his stunningly white teeth, "Wouldn't want you to slip again, eh?"

Marco didn't reply. In that moment, there was only one thing that concerned him, and it was not taking a shameful nosedive into the quarter inch of water puddled on the floor. For Marco, the more pressing matter was the sight of  _his neighbor's bare torso_ before him, in  _his own kitchen._ Marco's head spun. To hide his embarrassment, perhaps, and also maybe to give half a feeble attempt at flirting, Marco scoffed.

"What are you, some kind of exhibitionist?" 

Jean's smile only grew wider. 


	5. Pickle Shots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jean finally puts on his shirt... And Marco dares him to do something gross.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovelies!  
> Chapter five has arrived, I hope you like it!  
> As always, questions, comments, suggestions are welcome.  
> Thanks for all the kudos! It means so much to me!

Whilst Jean's shirt was in the dryer, he and Marco played several rounds of Mario Kart back in the home theater room. Jean and Marco were both leaning forward on Marco's worn leather couch, each of them smashing the buttons on their controllers as their avatars skidded along the virtual track. Marco, of course, was winning; the years he had spent playing video games by himself were becoming evident as he made pass after pass, shooting straight to first place as Yoshi, his avatar of choice. Jean wasn't too bad himself, he was currently right behind Marco, holding his own in second place, as Princess Peach. Marco had retrieved a blue package of Double-Stuf Oreos and a jar of Skippy peanut butter from the pantry, and they were now sitting on the glass coffee table in front of them. Jean and Marco alternatively fished cookies out of the package and dipped them in the peanut butter, each crunching their snacks loudly.

Jean's eyes were narrowed in concentration; they were on the last race, and he was about to round the last corner before the finish line when--

_BAM._

_BAM. BAM. BAM._

Jean skid into the corner as, one after another, he was knocked into by Baby Luigi, Koopa, Bowser, and Toad. At the same time, an electronic whistle signaled Marco's finish. Jean hastily backed up and shot forward, but he was already in 6th place.

"Shit!" Jean threw down his controller. 

Marco laughed. "You wanna give it another go? Or are you done trying to beat me?"

Jean sighed. "Nah man... I'm all played out. What time is it?"

"I dunno," said Marco. "Maybe like... three? Let me check."

He pulled his phone from the waistband of his sweat pants, an idea that he had casually stolen from Jean, and hit the wake button.

"Hey... it's almost six o'clock."

"WHAT?! Yo, I need to call _Maman_  about staying the night then!" Jean frantically dug his phone out of his own waistband.

 _Why would he ask me for the time if he could just check it himself? Is he really that lazy?_ Marco thought as Jean searched through his contact list for his mom's number. Upon finding it, he pressed the call button and brought the phone up to his ear. The dial tone sounded, muffled and quiet, once, twice, three times. On the fourth ring, someone picked up. 

"Jean? Honey, are you okay?" A woman's voice, pleasantly accented, spoke from the other end.

"Yeah, _Maman_ , I'm fine. Hey, I'm next door at the neighbor's house, remember they came over a few days ago and introduced themselves?"

"Oooh, honey, have you made a friend? Is it that Mark boy?" This woman was clearly very excited at the prospect of her son associating with other people.

"It's  _Marco, Maman._ And yes. I'm staying the night over here, is that okay? It's just next door."

There was a pause where Jean's mother processed Jean's words.

"M-marco, now, is it? O-of course,  _mon fils._  Just don't stay up too late, alright?"

"I'll be fine,  _Maman._ I'll see you tomorrow. Love you. Bye." Jean pressed the end call button and looked over at Marco.

"So what do you want to do now?"

Marco rolled his eyes.

"If it's six now, that means that your shirt finished drying seven and a half hours ago. How about you start by putting it on?"

Jean grimaced. "Do I have to?"

* * *

 

By eight o'clock, the two had migrated upstairs to the guest room, each nursing a steaming cup of Maruchan cup noodles. Jean and Marco were now sitting cross-legged on the cool gray comforter that stretched tightly across the queen-sized mattress, laughing hysterically. 

"No way," Marco gasped between giggles.

"Totally," Jean laughed. "After  _Maman_ was done with me, I couldn't sit for a week. It was worth it though."

"I can imagine," Marco sighed.

"So what about you then? What is the craziest thing you've done for five bucks?" Jean asked, his head tilted.

Marco winced, recalling. "It's uh..."

"Go on," Jean encouraged.

"I drank pickle juice mixed with vodka when I was twelve," Marco shuddered. "It was horrible. I remember wanting to puke my guts out, then die. I sat by the toilet for at least five hours afterwards. I was there for so long I got bruises on my knees."

"Pickle shots," Jean mused, "Nice."

"It was disgusting! To this day, I can't even look at a pickle without wanting to puke!" 

Jean rolled his eyes. 

"You don't believe me? Fine.  _I_ dare  _you_ to drink pickle juice and vodka mixed together. You're getting six ounces of each. You have to drink it in under a minute. No puking."

"Don't I get five bucks too?" Jean joked.

"No," Marco deadpanned. "You're already getting five bucks off your mom for winning that stupid bet about my name. If you push it, I'll tell her my name's Mark next time I see her and you won't get anything."

"Fine. Challenge accepted. Where're the booze and pickles around here?" Jean pushed himself off of the bed and stood up. Marco followed suit.

"Follow me," said the latter, as he walked through the walk-in closet that connected the guest room to his. He walked around his bed and over to the narrow staircase that lead to the kitchen, with Jean close behind. 

Light streamed up the stairs in white ribbons, illuminating their path as they descended down each stair. Marco turned the corner into the kitchen, and pulled on the door of the refrigerator. From one of the shelves inside, he produced a half empty jar of dill pickles, and set it down with a soft  _clank_ on the marbled granite counter top. 

From the wine rack beside it, Marco pulled a frosted bottle of vodka by the neck and set it next to the pickle juice. Then he found a measuring cup and filled it with six ounces of each.

"Bottoms up," he said, holding the concoction out to Jean.

Jean reluctantly took it, swallowing nervously.

"Chicken?" teased Marco.

"Never," Jean replied.


	6. Showers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Marco is in the wrong place at the wrong time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!  
> So here's chapter 6. I don't really know, it just came to me. But expect another update with chapter 7 coming soon! There will be lots of baby Marco tears, so look forward to it!  
> I don't know if it's too soon to mention, but I have a [tumblr](tautological-rhetoric.tumblr.com), and I will be following the tags #itspossibledefinitely and #ipd. My ask box is always open, in case anyone wants to fling me a suggestion over there.  
> Thank you thank you thank you all so much for your support! It makes my heart jump every time I see a new view or another kudos!  
> Until next time!

Marco leaned against the door of the bathroom adjacent to the kitchen, resting his head in the crevice between the doorjamb and the door itself. Loud dry heaving emanated from inside. Marco knocked gently in the middle of the door with the tips of his knuckles. 

"Are you done yet, Jean?"

Another heave and and what sounded like Jean spitting into the toilet bowl was his response. Marco sighed.

"You've been in there for two hours. There can't be anything more to get rid of," said Marco. 

He heard Jean scramble to his feet and flush the toilet. A few seconds later, the water was running in the sink, irregular splashes and gargles of the drain indicating that Jean was washing his hands. Seconds later, the handle turned on the bathroom door, and out stepped a very disheveled Jean.

His ochre eyes were shot red, his pupils were dilated, and his hair was untidy. There was a spot slightly darker yellow on his shirt just below his chin, probably where a few drops of bile had missed their target. His mouth was twisted into a frown, and his nose was screwed up in distaste. Beads of sweat collected at his hairline.

"That," he said, "That was  _not_ as much fun as I thought it would be."

"You should have taken my word for it," Marco replied coyly. "You feel like eating any pickles now?"

"Dude!" Jean scolded, wincing, "Don't even joke about that."

"Sorry, not sorry!" Marco teased. "You didn't believe me!"

"Yeah well..." Jean rubbed his neck shamefully.

"'Yeah well,' nothing." Marco held his hand up dismissively. "Come on. Didn't your mom say to go to bed at a decent hour? It's already ten o'clock."

"How is that not a decent hour?" Jean asked. "It's ten. We've still got time."

"Time for a shower maybe.  You need to clean up before you get into one of our beds. I mean, I don't know how it is at your house, but here--" 

"Yeah, whatever." Jean interrupted. "Can I borrow some clothes then?" 

"Sure, I'll bring some down." Marco nodded. "There should be some fresh towels in there already."

"Alright. I won't take long." Jean retreated back into the bathroom and shut the door behind him. The handle turned back into place as he released it.

Marco turned away from the door and started upstairs for some clothes for Jean.

* * *

 

Jean undressed quickly, stripping off his soiled shirt then pulling his sweat pants and boxer-briefs down below his knees. He then stepped out of them and kicked the pile of laundry into a corner.

He reached forward, opened the glass shower door, and turned the 'hot' shower knob. He was instantly sprayed with drops of cold water as the stream from the shower head regulated itself into a steady _pitter-patter_ against the tiled walls of the stall. He stepped inside cautiously when the water was warm enough, and melted into the soothing drum of the water against his bare skin. Jean dampened his hair, then reached for a bottle of shampoo without paying attention to the label. He squeezed a quarter-sized dollop into his cupped hand, then smoothed it over his hair, massaging his scalp with the sweet-smelling suds. After rinsing them out, he reached for the unused bar of oatmeal body soap that sat on the ledge to his left. He worked up a lather with it between his hands, and began to clean the rest of his body.

There was a knock at the door. 

"Just a minute," Jean called, rinsing himself off and stepping out of the shower. He reached for a folded towel from the towel rack on the adjacent wall, right as Marco turned the knob and walked in, holding a folded pair of sweat pants and an old black band t-shirt. Jean immediately covered himself with the towel as best he could.

There was a stunned silence as Marco and Jean each turned beet red, the former's freckles becoming lost in the saturation of color on his cheeks and nose.

"S-sorry!" He stuttered, dropping the clothes and fleeing from the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

* * *

 

Marco's pants fit Jean too long.

After he was finished changing, he brought his dirty clothes over to the washer, and set them in the hamper beside it. Then he climbed the stairs from the kitchen up to Marco's room.

He passed Marco's bed on the way to the closet.

"G'night," he called to the lump curled under the comforter, as he disappeared into the guest room.

While Jean pulled the covers over himself and laid his head against the feather down pillow, he could have sworn he heard a soft voice in the next room over, whispering.

"Good night, Jean,"


	7. Glass Shards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Marco has a nightmare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, lots of nice things.

Marco was falling.

He fell through space, he fell through time. All the while, white faces in dark ski masks leered around him. Plastic bags danced erratically in gloved hands, and the faces smirked and smiled and cackled around him, and Marco was helpless. He crashed into a hard surface which he supposed was the ground, and he was chained to it. Marco was helpless, pinned to the floor by invisible ropes and steel links that maybe he could see, if only there were light. Dark was everywhere. He struggled against his chains, and they rattled dully. The faces jeered around him, growing larger, more grotesque, fiercer, more threatening. The faces did not have defining features, but the lines between the eye holes and mouth holes of their woven masks were sharp against their pale yellow flesh. The faces swam through the air, tilting grossly, unnatural shadows and angles distorting their ugly faces; Marco sank to the bottom of the large pool of terror, breathing in fear and drowning in it. His lungs filled with despair, and he couldn't see anything except the faces that now stared at him with beady green eyes that shone greedily without catching the light. The faces, as if of a single mind, all at once dropped their mouths open to a disgusting length, unhinging their jaws and exposing gigantic sharp teeth. Marco screamed, and the faces loomed nearer, and now Marco could see that the teeth were not teeth, but jagged pieces of glass lodged in rotting blue-green gums. The shards dripped with a thick black tar-like substance. It dripped from the faces' nostrils, from their eyes. When it splattered on the floor, there was the hiss and a sizzle and a thin wisp of smoke that trailed up, up, then dissipated rapidly into the pitch black. Marco tried screaming again, but found himself choking on a hot, sticky substance that leaked from his own face, slowly running down his cheeks and spilling over his eyes, burning red paths in his flesh. The faces around him melted into cruel cackles and gargles, and Marco was left unto his own misery, his own pain...

And then it was all gone.

Where was he? Was he dead? There was light everywhere.

How nice. Was this heaven?

No. If he were, then why would someone be shaking him so violently? And who was that screaming? Surely God wouldn't allow such utter noise pollution in his eternal kingdom?

Marco's eyes fluttered open. He was in his own room. Thank goodness he wasn't dead. His hands hurt, but Marco didn't know why. He was curled into a fetal position under his comforter, and his head hung over the side of the mattress a few inches. His bed frame shook. Why was it shaking? Who was shaking him? And who was screaming? Marco couldn't breathe.

Marco coughed and gasped for air. The screaming ceased immediately, but the shaking continued.

Marco looked up and focused on the man who was leaning over him, his hands firmly grasping Marco's shoulders. He was red in the face, and he was saying something Marco couldn't hear. Tears, hot and salty, streamed down this man's cheeks.  _Who is this guy?_ Marco wondered.

He closed his eyes and succumbed to a dreamless sleep.

* * *

 

When Marco awoke the next morning, his bed was heavy with the weight of another body. His hands were tangled with someone else's, and his fingers as well as theirs were crusted with blood. Legs shorter than his own, but much thicker, were wrapped over his stomach, and a warm breath tickled the hairs of his undercut. There was a cheek nuzzled softly in the crook of his neck, and a pointed nose whose tip brushed his Adam's apple with every sigh.

Marco felt him stir. First, the man's legs began to twitch, then his fingers. Then he withdrew them both at once, and Marco was left with the cool kiss of stagnant air while the man trembled and stretched beside him. 

Marco rolled over to face him, and was pleasantly surprised to see Jean's tired but smiling face staring back at him. 

"Hey," Jean whispered groggily. His hand reached forward and rested on Marco's forehead, his thumb moving back and forth soothingly on Marco's freckled temple. "Are you feeling okay this morning? You had a pretty rough night."

 _Oh God._ Marco thought.  _What did I do? Was it embarrassing? Hell, even if it wasn't, if it's bad enough that he mentioned it... and stayed the night in here... Oh God._ He started to panic.

"Hey, it's okay. Cool down. You just woke up." Jean soothed. "It's okay."

"What did I--" Marco swallowed, trembling. "What did I do?"

Marco hadn't noticed how kind Jean's eyes had gotten. Their harsh ochre intensity had been replaced with a honey colored softness, warm and inviting. They caught the light sincerely, and were full of caring. His lips were so close, and they parted slightly as Jean pondered the right way to retell last night's events. There was a bright red spot on his right cheek where it had been in contact with Marco's skin. Marco averted his gaze and turned toward the ceiling, blushing softly.

"Marco... do you get night terrors?" Jean asked, almost a whisper.

"Mm." Marco responded, turning his head further away.

"Panic attacks then? You get those too, right?" Jean propped himself up on his elbows, leaning closer to Marco.

"Mm." Marco was blushing hard now, and he tried to bury his face in the cotton sheets to hide his embarrassment. "How did you know?"

"I saw the pills."

Silence.

Then Marco began to cry.

"What's the matter?" Jean's voice was concerned and soft.

"I'm sorry," he sobbed, dabbing at his eyes with the frills on his pillowcase. "I'm sorry. It's just--" Marco's breath caught, but he forced the words out, blubbering. " _Buhmmm_ \-- Ah. Wh-What did I do? I'm sorry, I'm--"

"Marco," Jean cut Marco off smoothly, pronouncing each syllable concisely. "There's nothing to be sorry for. Do you understand? Nothing. It's okay. It's okay. You had a night terror, and you couldn't help it. You were screaming a whole lot, and it woke me up, but it's okay. You're okay now. It's fine."

Marco choked on a quiet sob. A freckled hand swept across his face, rubbing the tears from his eyes. Then he looked at his hands. They were covered in dried blood. He held one out to Jean, newly found panic bubbling up inside him and taking root in his chest, causing it to rise and fall at an ever increasing rate. Jean regarded the hand carefully, then smiled and took it, threading their fingers together.

"It's okay," Jean's other arm wrapped around Marco's shoulders and pulled him closer, until his head was resting on Jean's chest. The sound of his heartbeat was calming. Jean's thumb trailed slowly up and down Marco's in a reassuring pattern. "It's okay."

Jean pressed his lips against Marco's forehead.

Marco's heart skipped a beat, but he said nothing, instead indulging in the pleasant warmness that spread from somewhere under his ribs outward. He breathed the scent of Jean in.

They remained like that for another hour, before Marco sat up to take his meds and Jean announced that he should be heading home anyway, but that he would swing by later around dinner.

Marco found himself looking at the clock more after Jean left. And the time seemed to pass slower than it had when Jean had been there. He wasn't able to guess the time right even once.

Maybe he was looking forward to seeing him again?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please keep in mind that Jean is very distressed after having just done a guy in. He focuses more on Marco's problems to avoid facing his own, but as the story continues, we'll delve further into Jean's mind too.
> 
> Thank you all so much for all the positive feedback! I'd love to hear more from you all, so please leave a comment with feedback or suggestions below!


	8. Never-Have-I-Ever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marco found himself looking up to Jean, even though he was shorter than him. This guy was hella brave, good-looking, and suave, everything that Marco knew he would never be...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: I felt like that last part was super rushed, so I changed it a little bit.

He said he would be back around dinner.

When was dinner?

It was in the evening, but when?

Marco usually ate at six.

Sometimes seven. 

When did Jean eat? Marco didn't know. Should he have asked? Maybe... No. It's a good thing he didn't. He didn't want to seem creepy.

Wait. Was that creepy?

Yes. Definitely.

Marco cringed.

What was the time now? Marco checked his phone. He read the numbers on the screen without comprehension, then turned it off. Wait. What was that again? He hit the wake button once more, this time reading the time it showed more carefully.

Seven-thirty-two.

When had it gotten this late? It didn't really matter to Marco, he was too preoccupied with Jean's potential arrival to care about petty things like food...

Marco, who had been pacing around the kitchen, suddenly looked up from his feet. Was that a knock? He couldn't be sure. But if it was, it would be awfully rude to leave Jean waiting on his front stoop forever. Marco decisively changed the direction he was pacing, and made long swift strides to the front door. He didn't look through the peep hole first; he wanted it to be a surprise. He turned the knob on the door, and tugged.

Standing in front of him, dressed in long khaki pants and a uniform shirt was--

Marco paused when he saw the man's face.

It was the UPS man.

"Hello sir, would you mind signing here please?" The man held out a clipboard. In the other hand, he had some sort of yellow scanning device with a coiled cord that curled in on itself.

"Yeah, uh... sure." Marco blankly snatched the pen that hung from a beaded string that hung from the clipboard and initialed the delivery slip.

"Have a nice day, sir," said the delivery man, as he held a small brown parcel out to Marco.

"Thanks," Marco closed the door. _Talk about a disappointment._

He turned the package over and looked at the address line to find who it was supposed to go to.  _Marco Bodt,_ it said. The return address was somewhere in Hawaii. Marco climbed upstairs quickly, bursting into his room and rummaging through his desk for a pair of scissors. Upon finding an old pair of shears, he sliced into the box.

It smelled of the tropics.

The note inside was from his mom. It read,

 

 

> _Dearest Marco,_
> 
> _Hawaii has been great so far! The beaches are lovely and the water is warm. I wish I could say that your father and I are spending lots of  quality time together, but he's been pretty busy with work. The company has him traveling every day for business pitches, and he's been pretty worn out over the last few days. It almost seems like he's never allowed to rest!_  
>    
>  _Anyway, I don't want to bore you with my snorkeling stories, so I'll save that for when I get home and can show you pictures! Also, have you been taking care of yourself? Have you been remembering your medication?  
>  _
> 
> _Hang tight honey. We'll be home before you know it._
> 
> _Mom_

Marco picked the crisp piece of paper off of the rest of the box's contents, and set it down on his now cluttered desk. He looked inside, and found that his mom had sent him an assortment of trinkets and tourist merchandise, along with a surprising amount of shredded brown paper for padding. At the very bottom, there was a coconut shaped snow globe with a brightly colored tiki and a woman with long black hair and a grass skirt inside. Marco sighed, then set the open box down on his desk.

It was already almost eight o'clock. Marco decided to put on his pajamas. He stripped his sweatpants and t-shirt off, then hopped into a pair of striped cotton drawstring pants. He pulled the strings of the waistband tight and tied the pants close against his skinny frame.

Marco could tell he was losing weight. His pale freckled hip bones jutted out prominently, and the fabric of his pants hung loosely around his waist. He pulled on a _Pink Floyd_  T-shirt, and found that this item, too, hung off of his shoulders like a curtain. He sighed, and climbed onto his bed, stretching his limbs out over the ruffled sheets. He laid back, rested his head on his pillow, and stared at the ceiling, thinking...

When he had woken up this morning-- Jean was beside him, wasn't he? He said that Marco had had a nightmare, or something, and had woken him up screaming in the middle of the night. And... he knew that Marco had panic attacks. Which meant that he also knew about the anxiety and depression. When Marco took his meds earlier, Jean left immediately. Was he disgusted? Revolted? Did Jean hate him? Did the promise to return around dinner-- was its only purpose to serve as an easy outro?

Marco didn't know, but the seed of doubt had already taken root inside him. He brought his hand up to his face, and pressed his fingers into his closed eyelids, creating brightly colored patches of thought on his retinas. They danced around, and for a while, Marco watched them, adjusting the pressure on his eyelids to create different colors or patterns. He drifted off into himself, not quite asleep, but indifferent to the world around him in much the same way. As it were, he didn't notice when, forty five minutes later, the window beside his bed slid open, being pushed up from the outside.

Marco didn't notice when a figure, silhouetted by the post-sundown glow outside, climbed through the open window, stood up, and looked around, his gaze finally settling on Marco while he dusted his clothes off with his hands. He didn't notice all the minutes it took for this figure to approach him, inching slowly, quietly, with his breath held. He didn't notice as it inched closer and closer to his face, its lips pulled back in an evil grin. He didn't notice Jean's hot breath on his forehead, or how it made a few loose hairs sway, and Jean moved closer and closer until there was almost no space between them when--

" _BOO!!!_ " Jean shreiked, instantly taking a few steps back and causing Marco's body to seize as he rolled off of his bed.

Jean laughed.

"Dude, scaredy-cat much?" He chuckled.

Marco let out a wheezing gasp, clutching his throat and convulsing on the floor. He had rolled over and curled into a fetal position since falling flat-backed onto the floor, and his legs contracted and expanded; he brought his knees up to his forehead, then violently pushed them out, his back arched. He sputtered and gasped pathetically, and that's when Jean realized that _Marco couldn't breathe._  Marco writhed on the floor, and Jean knew that something he did was wrong, and he was panicking because  _What do you do when someone can't breathe?_

The first thing he thought of was mouth-to-mouth. But wait. Was that even real? Jean briefly recalled something in a movie involving a scrawny kid and a hot life guard... Yeah. Definitely not. Something about that didn't seem...  _right_ for the situation. Jean gasped, he had been holding his breath too and now Marco was turning  _purple_. Jean frantically scanned the room, searching for something that could possibly help--

He lunged forward when he spotted the yellow highlighted label of a rescue inhaler. Jean ripped out its contents and threw off the cap, briefly scanning the directions of the box before pinning Marco down and prying his mouth open, administering two quick puffs into his spasming lungs. 

It still took a long time for Marco to regain his breath, and even longer for him to talk. He didn't glare at Jean or anything, despite the fact that he had caused this particular episode, and this was particularly troubling. Marco seemed to be cursing himself internally for having another attack.  _Is he embarrassed?_ Jean thought.  _He really shouldn't be. It's not his fault._

Jean pondered the best way to make Marco feel better as Marco sat up and further curled in on himself, and came up with...

* * *

 

"Okay, so do you know how to play?" Jean asked a still red-eyed Marco, who sat cross-legged on the guest room's bed.

Marco shook his head, sniffling a little bit.

"Alright then, this should be fun," Jean grinned, pulling a bottle of wine out from behind his back, along with two shot glasses. 

Marco looked confused.

"It goes like this," Jean explained, popping the cork and pouring each of them a very full shot of white wine. "You start off by saying 'Never-have-I-ever' and follow up with something that you haven't done before but that you think I have. If I have done it, then I have to drink. If I haven't, you do."

"Is there a winner?" Marco's voice was oddly clear.

"No," said Jean. "I mean, there would be if we had more people, but since it's just us... No, I'd say not. We're both probably going to get drunk off our asses." He flashed Marco a shit-eating grin. "Okay?"

"O-okay," Marco said, adjusting himself on the comforter awkwardly as Jean held out the shot glass to him.

"I'll go first," Jean said.

"...Never have I ever... eaten Chinese food." Jean stated simply.

"No way," Marco's eyes popped out. "You honestly haven't?"

"Nope," Jean smiled. "I know I saw the Chinese delivery guy here the other day, so drink up,"

"Ugh," Marco groaned, draining his glass. "Okay, me next, right? Never have I ever... bleached my hair." he said, glancing up at Jean's two-toned style, the undercut significantly darker than the blonde hairs that stuck out on the top of his head. 

Jean grinned again, and refilled Marco's glass. "Bottoms up," he said. "It's natural."

"Okay, so..." Jean sighed. "Never have I ever been left at home for several days by my parents."

"Hey, you don't play fair," Marco whined, downing his wine. "Why are we drinking wine anyway? This is supposed to be for dinner parties."

"Because you ruined vodka for me forever," was Jean's curt reply. "Your turn." 

"Never have I ever broken into someone else's house," Marco narrowed his eyes, glaring at Jean. 

"Dude, you got me," the latter said, downing his first glass. 

"Never have I ever..." Jean began, thinking still, "Been out of the country."

Marco did nothing.

Jean blanched. "But dude! You're like... mega rich! You've never left the country? Like, you haven't been to Mexico or Canada or something? New York? "

Marco shook his head. "New York isn't outside of the country, but I haven't been there either. I-I'm, uhm, I'm not very good with traveling, so..." He trailed off, a pale pink flush inching its way up behind his freckled cheeks. "Anyway, you get to drink to that."

Jean poured himself another shot of white wine, then guzzled it quickly. “Your go, dude.”

“Right,” said Marco. “Never have I ever…” Jean smiled, encouraging him to continue, and Marco was suddenly inspired-- “Never have I ever had a girlfriend.” He looked expectantly at Jean’s shot glass, but it didn’t move. Marco looked back up at Jean, whose face was red. Marco sputtered. “W-well? H-have you or not?”

Jean’s ears were bright red and the bridge of his nose was flushed an intense shade of pink that spread over his cheeks. Marco couldn't believe the words that came out of his mouth next.

"I-uhm. I don't like chicks like that." Jean stuttered nervously. This clearly wasn't how he had wanted to say this. 

It wasn't a bad thing. It wasn't the least bit shameful, even, but Jean acted like it was. The way his usually confident neighbor seemed to curl in on himself affected Marco, and touched him. Why did this remind him so much of himself?  _It's not a bad thing._ Marco thought. 

"Uhm, so. I mean, that's cool," Marco treaded carefully. "It's cool." 

Jean breathed relief.

"Thanks man." Jean looked up, and a devious look returned to his eyes. "So you haven't either? I mean, you haven't had a girlfriend? Are  _you_ queer?"

Marco didn't know how to respond. "I-I, I don't know?" 

Jean's smile grew wider, and he moved extremely close to Marco, his fair nose almost brushing against Marco's freckled one. "Wanna check?"

Marco swallowed, but before he could say anything, Jean's parted lips were smashed into his own, and Marco had no idea when it had happened exactly, but they were kissing.

Jean pushed Marco onto his back, until they were both lying flat against the mattress. Marco's head just missed the bottom edge of a feather down pillow; Jean tilted his head, deepening the kiss and grasping fistfuls of hair and shirt material with desperate hands. 

They were kissing, and Marco was internally combusting, and Jean's hands were running through his hair and pulling at his shirt, and his lips were warm, and his eyes were closed (Marco quickly shut his own) and they were kissing and Marco was kissing him back.

When they parted, Jean was grinning smugly, lying on Marco's stomach.

"Dude, you are _so_ gay."


End file.
